


Un goût de miel (qui goûte beaucoup plus sucré que le vin)

by yeahitshowed



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahitshowed/pseuds/yeahitshowed
Summary: Inspired by a still from next week's OB, which features Delphine, Rachel and Cosima in some seriously fancy dinner party garb.





	Un goût de miel (qui goûte beaucoup plus sucré que le vin)

**Author's Note:**

> My fic is from Delphine's perspective. To read Rachel's perspective, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11383089?view_adult=true).
> 
> To read Cosima's perspective, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11385402view_adult=true).

After tonight, Delphine will be able to breathe. Westmorland will meet Cosima, and will love her, unless — but there is no unless, is there? The night is going to coalesce in smiles and handshakes and a solid future for the both of them. It has to.

At least Cosima’s appearance is guaranteed to impress. She looks splendid, all crooked-smile charm in the suit Delphine selected. (Westmorland’s people had laid out a rather forgettable dress for her, but the promise of being owed a favor by their boss’s closest advisor had persuaded them to make the switch. With this outfit, Cosima will remind Westmorland of his glory days — an instant upper hand.) Leaning in to help with the bowtie, Delphine’s fingers graze Cosima’s throat. Unconsciously, she finds her carotid. Just underneath the skin: life, life, life, pulsing so much stronger than that frostbitten day weeks ago.

“Are you certain Marlene Dietrich is not one of your sisters, also?” Delphine says fondly. “Très séduisante.”

Cosima smiles at her. They set off, hand in hand, a lace dress and a smart suit prepared for anything their stately evening has in store.

Of course, behind suits and dresses are bullet wounds and bleeding lungs, and behind the wooden doors of the dining room: Rachel.

On Delphine’s thumb is suddenly the phantom pressure of pressing against Rachel’s eye. She doesn’t notice Cosima releasing her hand.

 “Hello, Rachel,” she says over Cosima’s reflexive attempt to storm out. Delphine has reflexes, also — more bent toward survival than Cosima’s, perhaps. “We were told Westmorland would be joining us.” State the obvious. Play wounded. Hopefully, Rachel would revel in their stupidity, and —  

“I’m afraid he’s been delayed,” Rachel says, enjoying her wine like the spoils of war, and Delphine exhales just a bit. The same Rachel, then, albeit more put together than the last time they spoke.

Cosima pulls her aside, all genuine anger and fear. “I can’t sit at the same table as her,” she whispers. “I saw her stab her own mother, Delphine. What if we’re next? I don’t want to get gutted with a…a…oyster fork!”

“I know, chérie, but what choice do we have?” Delphine says as gently as she can. “There are men stationed outside, and Rachel has Westmorland’s ear as much as I do. Disrupting the evening will do us no good. You know that, don’t you?” Cosima shrugs. “This is our best chance at keeping you safe. One hour, maybe less.”

There is less anger in Cosima’s face — still fear, but fear is appropriate, she thinks. Delphine claims the seat opposite Rachel, straightening her spine to match the high-backed chair. Cosima slumps into the chair beside Rachel. It is still disorienting, seeing Cosima next to the others. Delphine finds herself glancing between the two, comparing the way they hold their forks and drink their wine.

“This is bullshit,” Cosima says, and the unconscious comparisons end.

“Cosima.”

“No, you said survival, you didn’t say this.”

 Delphine has options, here. She can follow dinner party protocol: Rachel has prepared a lovely evening for us, let us not be rude. But Cosima would not be stopped by politeness, and Rachel may lose the amused smirk she’s currently aiming at Cosima once the insults start flying.

 Honesty, then. Communicate to Cosima the importance of their behavior while giving Rachel the satisfaction of acknowledging their limited position.

“Maybe this is survival,” she says, and Rachel seems pleased.

But of course: “What did you do to Sarah,” Cosima barrels on, glaring daggers, insulting the wine, ignoring Delphine’s second cautioning “Cosima.”

Delphine could have predicted that the mention of Sarah would incense Rachel enough to break her hostess charade. She could have predicted many of the consequences that come from Cosima’s actions, if only she was listened to. But now is not the time to wallow. Now is the time to taste the wine, compliment the soup, send Cosima the look that got her to stop berating Aldous the day they toured their Dyad lab.

“How goes the cure, Doctor Cormier,” Rachel asks, looking at her with just-barely mismatched eyes. Again, there is the memory of that greatawful moment on her thumb. Her spoon shakes in her hand. “Don’t be naive. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the missing vial? Mr. Westmorland is all in favor of a cure, he’s very invested in your efforts. As am I.”

In the get-out-of-the-elevator-and-go-to-Frankfurt flavor of silence that follows, Delphine stares at her plate. She hears Cosima spit venom at Rachel, catches her eye, coaxes her back to earth. “Cosima is making admirable progress,” Delphine says, smiling a smile that she knows from years of practice appears genuine. Under the table, she wrings her hands.

“Yeah, well. Have my lab partner back, don’t I?”

It is not wise to betray real emotion in Rachel’s presence, but Delphine allows herself a glowing moment with Cosima. She expects to be greeted with disgust when she finally glances over to Rachel. She expects wrong.

(There had been days at the Dyad — when Rachel was still fattening her up for the slaughter — where their chairs were preset unnecessarily close together for meetings. Once, Delphine had brushed Rachel’s arm while reaching for a folder. Rachel had given her a look like a trap closing.)

“Is ‘lab partner’ the right term, considering what we’re working with?” Cosima says, finishing her first glass of wine.

“I assumed the close quarters would be welcome, considering your time apart.” Rachel pours her a second glass. “But enough about work.”

For the next half hour or so, the conversation flows easily — as does the wine. The combination of the two erodes Delphine’s better judgment, and she finds herself speaking to Rachel as if to a friend. Stranger still, Rachel is quite friendly. Delphine tenses the first time Cosima launches into one of her stories, but by the third, she joins in, the two of them addressing a surprisingly receptive audience.

“We were two blocks from the tattoo parlor before she chickened out, I swear,” Cosima giggles.

“It was further than that,” Delphine amends. “I am not as brave as you.”

“What would you have gotten?” Rachel asks.

Delphine jumps a bit; in all honesty, she’d forgotten Rachel’s presence for a moment. “Whatever Cosima recommended.”

“You would let someone else permanently alter your body?”

“Not someone,” Delphine counters. “Her.”

Cosima’s tattoos make an appearance when she discards her suit jacket, and then her waistcoat, over her chair. Delphine is mesmerized, which is a dangerous thing to be. When she looks up, Rachel is there, hunter-ready and eyebrows raised. 

Rachel undoes the bowtie Delphine so meticulously crafted. Delphine swigs her wine.

It isn’t until Cosima gives her a bemused look that Delphine realizes she’s lapsed into French while explaining their current process to Rachel. “Sorry,” she offers to Cosima.

“Don’t be. It’s charming,” Rachel says, taking the apology like she’s taken the rest of the evening. The wine is having its effect — Delphine is forgetting why she has been so polite to this woman thus far.

Cosima’s foot is on her leg, but Rachel’s smirk is still staring her down, and between the two, Delphine focuses on the latter. “This would be easier if Westmorland would give us a lab,” Delphine echoes Cosima’s earlier point.

“He has his reasons. Or so I’ve been told.”

 “So he doesn’t tell you everything,” Cosima pushes.

“No, he doesn’t.”

The little victory Delphine feels at Rachel’s shortcoming is reflected in Cosima’s eyes. The Dyad’s wunderkind, for once left in the dark. Her better judgment long forgotten, Delphine opens her mouth to pour salt in the wound.

Rachel licks sorbet off her lips. Delphine bites back — everything, for the moment.

Back to Cosima, a constant in this strange, strange evening. She gulps port and gushes details, the shoes she was wearing on a warm San Francisco day, the strangers who liked them.

Delphine is blissfully lost in the story when she feels Cosima’s foot on her thigh.

Her own mouthful of port nearly chokes her as she coughs, staring daggers at Cosima. And Cosima has the audacity to stare back, like it is Delphine making the scene.

“What…? What — oh, shit that’s — you don’t care, sorry, I’m…” Cosima addresses her apology to Rachel. Delphine’s hands begin to twist around themselves again. “I think I’m drunk,” Cosima offers. 

“We are all maybe too drunk, I think,” Delphine murmurs. She swirls her glass to still her hands.

“Well, one so rarely gets the chance to take advantage of the wine cellars of a supercentenarian,” Rachel says.

“He’s so old,” Cosima laughs, and Delphine joins in, more at the absurdity of Westmorland in general than at Cosima’s comment. This ancient being, who Delphine had been hoping to schmooze over appetizers. She and Cosima descend into a state unacceptable by any dinner party standards, but Rachel does not protest; she simply catches Cosima before she can harm herself on the table.

“Drunk,” Cosima shrugs.

“Clumsy,” Delphine corrects.

“Whoa, that one’s new. Thought it was cheeky.”

“That also,” Delphine amends. They beam at each other. Cosima redirects that beam at Rachel.

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. The evening’s natural center of gravity, somehow. Delphine doesn’t understand. Why have the rules suddenly changed? Why is Rachel anything but a threat? Why does she have Cosima’s face and arms and throat and wear them so very, very well?

She’s been staring; Rachel catches her. (Of course she does.) Rachel touches Cosima’s collar. Delphine doesn’t know where to look anymore.

There are new rules forming.

“Well,” Rachel says.

“It’s late,” Cosima tries. “So. Yeah. Late. 

Too late, Delphine thinks, memorizing Rachel’s dress.

“You’ll be staying the night, of course,” Rachel says. With a look, Delphine confirms Cosima is in as deep as she is. “The bedrooms are upstairs. Well, are you coming?”

They traipse upstairs in a line, Rachel first, Cosima last. Between them, Delphine pulls at her dress. They’re led into an ornate old bedroom lined with books and some rather tasteful taxidermy — a collection of now-extinct species, judging by their unfamiliarity. Glancing at each pair of vacant glass eyes, Delphine is reminded of tonight’s primary mission: preservation.

“I assume you don’t mind sharing,” Rachel says 

Cosima misinterprets what Rachel means by ‘sharing.’ Delphine doesn’t. Taking a step forward, she holds Rachel’s gaze; Rachel walks towards her; and Delphine’s kissing her third Leda clone.

God, she hates that _that’s_ her first thought. They are more than Ledas. Obviously. But if Delphine does not revert into her old logic-based monitor mindset, then she might have to process that Rachel Duncan is biting her lower lip 

The kiss tastes like the echo of Rachel’s stilettos in a white Dyad hallway. That sound had haunted Delphine for months — she’d brushed it off as hatred — and it is, but, pressing her hand against Rachel’s back, she’s starting to think there was something else —

“I wondered,” Delphine breathes when Rachel pulls away. Those close-quarters meetings. The way Rachel had looked at her.

But Rachel is bored with her revelation. She’s beckoned Cosima over, who looks at Delphine and sees all she needs to see. Cosima grins a little, joining them, like it’s not Rachel egging her on. Like it’s someone safe — that blonde tramp she’d fooled around with in Delphine’s absence, maybe.

Shay. That was her name. Delphine lunges at Rachel again, lets her feel her up, watches Cosima’s reaction. She twines her hands behind Rachel’s back, finds Cosima. She will not be kindling in someone else’s fire, least of all Rachel’s.

Delphine ends up in Cosima’s lap, then out of it, then up against Rachel’s front; the edges of her love-lust for Cosima and hate-lust for Rachel are blurring, but the shape of the night doesn’t matter anymore. Only the outcome matters. These two women have tried shoving Delphine out of their lives and into airplanes, laboratories, college campuses, but here she is, pressed between them. And she will never leave them.

Rachel, however, has no qualms about leaving. Her hands are suddenly gone from Delphine’s skin, and with a quick kiss — the kind that means business meeting — she walks toward the door. “My room is right next door, should you need anything,” she says as a farewell.

The night finishes as many others have. Delphine and Cosima, giddy with each other and eager to show it. But there’s something between them that wasn’t there before —  a sharpness like stilettos and steel traps, changing the way their hands move on each other. Or perhaps it’s just the wine.

Yes, it’s the wine; tonight might as well have never happened, because tomorrow they’ll be holding hands with a hangover and the same love they’ve always had. Delphine will manage to claw their way back to normal. She always does.


End file.
